Fade to Autumn
by Hecate's Rath
Summary: It is only fitting that they should fade in the autumn, drifting softly away like the leaves. Arthur/Molly


Author's Notes: My boyfriend broke up with me in favor of... another guy. I guess I can now say that I've managed to turn a guy gay...? Anyhow, I was (and am) a bit depressed and feeling rather morbid. Ergo, I wrote about people dying. Eh.

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.

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September arrives with a feeling of dread Arthur can't shake. It wraps its arms around him, settles into his bones, in his joints, slowing him in the mornings and tripping him up when he tries to move on.

Molly's getting worse.

True enough, they're old—Merlin, their children's children are having children and Fred's memory is positively ancient.

Of course, it doesn't hurt any less—the pain hasn't faded, the wound hasn't healed—but it hurts in different ways, like arthritis or the dull ache of a chest cold. It's breaking Molly down.

Granted, it took years—decades, even—for it to wear away at her like the tide wears away at the shore, but the pain—and other pains—have made her little more than a ghost, haunting the Burrow and moaning and crying and keening and watching for Fred long after the sun has sunk low over the horizon.

She cooks, still, because it makes her happy and so few things bring her happiness that Arthur can't bring himself to stop her. Of course, one _does_ get tired of the same thing over and over again, but it's Fred's favorite and everything Molly does is for Fred nowadays.

Arthur takes it as his sign, his warning—he knows his wife's days in this world are numbered and he supposes that her obsession with Fred is only the supernatural way of warning him and preparing him for what's to come.

As September fades slowly to October, Arthur takes Molly to put flowers on the graves of Fleur and Percy and Fred.

It's the only outing Molly really likes to go on, so Arthur waits patiently while she powders her nose and gets all dressed up and he lets her hold his arm as she hobbles over the graveyard clutching flowers.

He supposes she's fairly pathetic looking, but Arthur can't bring himself to care and he waits patiently as she fixes the flowers _just so_ and fusses over the upkeep of the graves and the yard in general, muttering to herself. When the sun is sinking low, Molly grips his arm again to hobble over the ground, littered with fallen leaves and "hurry home, Arthur, Freddy will want his dinner."

These words chill Arthur to the bone and _terrify_ him. But he doesn't have the heart to correct her (not that it'll do much good anyway), so he forces a smile past the bile that works its way up his throat and, squeezing her hand, agrees.

The kids and the grandkids and the great-grandkids come down for Halloween and Bill shakes his head at Molly's pitiful vigil for Fred and "Dad, you should look into putting her in a home," he says, softly so Molly won't hear. "They've got a nice one just a few miles from here, you could visit her every—"

"No," Arthur interrupts firmly. "No, Bill, she'll stay here, with me. She's happy here, Bill. Don't deny her happiness—there are so few things that bring it these days."

And Bill shakes his head, but doesn't mention it again, scooping up his granddaughter and settling into the armchair to read her the Tale of the Three Witches.

Arthur goes to Molly and leads her away from the window.

"But, Fred," she says, looking back over her shoulder. "I've got to…to watch for him, Arthur."

"He'll be here in good time, Molly, you know how he is," Arthur says gently. "Let's go ahead and get started eating. We'll save a plate for Fred."

And Molly follows him obediently, setting out the meal (Fred's favorite _again_) and fussing over Dominique (who is pregnant) and calling little Adele "Torie." Halfway through the meal, Arthur excuses himself and shuts himself in their bedroom and drops to the bed and he _cries_.

Because Molly isn't the same—she's broken, and he can't do a damned thing. And watching her, living with her, it's painful like Fred's death never was—they didn't watch Fred waste away, it was a clean break. Watching Molly die is heart-wrenching—it's the worst kind of helplessness because he's _watching_ her die and he can't do a damned thing about it.

He almost (_almost_) wants her to just… _die_ already because then he could stop listening to her muttering about how Fred's late for dinner again or about how she needs to be sure and make Fred's bed because he's coming to stay the night. He never has to hold her as she sobs into his chest about how she's so confused and…and _muddled_ and how she doesn't know what's going on or…anything.

When he's cried himself dry, he goes back to dinner, but Molly's not there, she's back at the window, searching the hills anxiously for Fred and she turns to Arthur, her round face worried and puzzled. "You don't think he's forgotten, do you, Arthur, dear?"

October gives way to November and Molly grows worse. She doesn't know her great-grandchildren and she constantly asks for Fabian and Gideon. She rambles about wedding plans and tells Arthur to remind her to tell Dorcas Meadowes that she needs to get in to Madam Malkin's for her final fitting before the end of the week. She frets about the weather ("What if it rains on my wedding day?") and calls George "Gideon."

By the end of November, she's stopped saying anything at all.

She's weak and broken and worn down and confused and she doesn't know her own children anymore.

She's stopped cooking—Arthur survives on what the kids bring over. She lies in bed and wastes away and it's _killing_ Arthur to watch.

But watch he does.

Molly fades and falls on a quiet day in the middle of the week—Arthur goes to get a drink from the kitchen and when he comes back, Molly is sitting up, awake and smiling and at peace.

"Arthur," she says with absolute certainty. "I love you." And then she squeezes his hand and falls to sleep—she doesn't wake up again until she is reunited with Fred.

It's bittersweet, in its own way. It's nice to know that she is no longer confused and is truly happy, wherever she is, but at the same time…

At the same time, Arthur has lost his companion of nearly seventy years. And you never get over losing someone like that—much like you never _really_ recover from burying your children. He is incomplete without her shadow to dance with hers in the sunshine, without her hand to hold, without _her_ there to hold.

And it will not be long before Arthur joins her—he is far from young and his reason for living has faded away.

In the end, they are much like the autumn, like the leaves that drift down from the treetops. And when the leaves of autumn fall, they fall slowly and softly, brushing along the ground as if scared to wake the winter winds. There is none of the screaming pain and blinding hatred of winter (Fred's death was all stinging bitter winter winds and blinding pain and sharp, stabbing blizzards)—and it is only fitting that they should die in the autumn along with the last of the leaves—drifting softly away into the warm, white beyond.

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A/N2: It's supposed to imply that Molly has Alzheimer's, but that doesn't really matter. Does the last paragraph make sense with the rest of the piece? I wasn't sure. Review, please, and make me feel slightly better...


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